subjected to real interrogation before now. There could be advantages in letting him think he had escaped close scrutiny. (Not that I could think what those advantages might be.)
Outside the house, I noticed the vigilis observer that Fusculus had placed there in case the principals did a flit. He was pretending to drink at a caupona, a peaceful type of surveillance; I nodded but did not speak to him.
The place was barred and bolted as Lucrio's house had been after the bank crashed, but a porter let me in. Indoors, there were indeed signs of imminent departure. It was definitely rime, to act, or we would lose Lysa and the freedman. Packed bundles and chests were standing about. Since I was here before, some wall hangings and curtains had been taken down.
For once, Diomedes was in. For once, he made no attempt to seek refuge behind his mother; she did not appear at all. He had grown a beard, shaped like his father's. I told him of my inconclusive meeting with the priest, and ordered him to come back with me to the Temple, to see if he could find somebody else there who might remember him. `If not, you may have to shave off this new face-disguise.'
As we were leaving, somebody entered the house – Lucrio, interestingly in possession of his own latch-lifter. He looked a little harassed and tired. He was also put out at seeing me – though far too astute to complain.
`Stay there.' I snapped at Diomedes. `Lucrio, sending a thug to kill me was not a bright idea!' I would get him for that if I could.
Lucrio was too clever, or too weary to pretend. He just kicked off his outdoor shoes and filled in time shoving his feet into house slippers.
`I am sorry you had to liquidate,' I said. `Let's get this straight though. My enquiries were never aimed against the bank maliciously – and I never suggested to people that there should be a run on deposits. Don't blame me for what has happened. I just want to identify who killed your old master.'
Lucrio made no comment on the Bos incident, but said of the bank, `The collapse was inevitable. From the moment Chrysippus was killed, we faced a loss of public confidence.' A ghost of a smile crossed his face. `That should be one argument against me being your killer. I foresaw this. I would never have risked it.'
`What happens now?' I asked.
`A careful and calm unwinding of our affairs in Rome. Neutral agents, experienced in such work, will pay off what they can of our debts.'
`Do something for me.' There was no question of letting him buy himself off, though if he thought he could, it might help Ma. `Look kindly on the deposits of a little old lady called Junilla Tacita. She came to you on the recommendation of Anacrites, the spy. I expect he handled the deal.'
`He didn't,' replied the freedman, somewhat testily. `I remember Junilla Tacita. We negotiated face to face.'
`I won't ask what arrangements you made for her. I don't expect you to break a client's confidence.'
`Good!' He was being unhelpful. It was professionally correct, though I sensed annoyance. `What's Junilla Tacita to you, Falco?'
`My mother,' I said levelly. I wondered if Ma might have dealt with Lucrio in her inimitable style. The feeling was confirmed when I suddenly found myself exchanging wry grins with him. `Have a look at her situation,' I instructed. `You can tell me tomorrow – I want to finalise my enquiries. Come at noon, please, to the scriptorium. Tell Lysa, she is to be there as well.'
He nodded, then glanced curiously at Diomedes, still standing beside me with all the vigour of beached seaweed. `Diomedes and I are just going for a nice walk, Lucrio. If his dear mother wonders what we are up to, assure the lady it is routine.'
Diomedes protested when he learned I was serious about walking up the Aventine. Apparently, he went everywhere in a carrying chair. Nonetheless, he was sufficiently nervous to let himself be dragged off
on foot. I thought Lucrio, the future stepfather who had been a household slave, enjoyed seeing that.
Diomedes was useless on a route march. On the other hand, when I sized him up, his chest and arm muscles were not badly developed. He was no weakling, but I guessed he lacked real training. His mother had probably paid a fortune to a gymnasium teacher – one who let Diomedes swing too many lightweight exercise clubs and spend too long tossing little beanbags to and fro.
Money had been spent on him. He could probably read poetry and play the cithara. His clothing was expensive, of course, though his fancy boots were far too soft for tramping uneven paving stones. His tunic, soon soaked with perspiration across the shoulders, made him look like the master whilst I – in my old wine-red rag – must seem to be his slave. That would give my Aventine neighbours cause to snigger. I walked faster, striding manfully ahead of him while he trailed behind feebly.
Even before we had rounded the Circus, Diomedes was limping. I dragged him up the Clivus Publicius, towards his late father's house, at a merciless pace. He was fit enough not to get too breathless. Outside the popina where the scriptorium writers drank, I happened to see Euschemon. I stopped.
`Diomedes, you trot ahead to your temple. Try to find somebody to vouch for you at the time your father was being murdered. I'll follow in a moment.' A cunning look appeared in his dark eyes. `Don't think of bunking off,' I told him briefly. `Flight will brand you as the killer. I assume that even Romanised Greeks know the penalty for parricide?' This penalty was so sensational most educated people had heard of it. The details featured large whenever tourists from the provinces were hearing Roman law extolled. He must know. With a friendly smile, I told him anyway: `Sons who kill their fathers are tied in a large sack along with a dog, a cock, a viper and an ape then thrown into the river.'
I was not sure whether he believed me, but the son of Chrysippus scurried off in his delicate footwear, eager to establish his alibi.
Euschemon had quietly watched me despatch his ex-employer's son; he had a rather narrow expression. He had always spoken of Diomedes with restraint rather than open dislike, but they had not exchanged greetings just now.
The scriptorium manager was leaning an elbow on the popina
`Or to put it another way: too much fun, and far too popular. They are the next big thing. Raging best- sellers.'
I became thoughtful. `You're buying?'
`We are!' promised Euschemon, feelingly.
As I left the popina, I could see the waiter who wanted to be a writer had gone into a private reverie. He reminded me of Helena when she was reading. He did not mind being alone. He could enter the company of his own swirling gang of vivid characters.
And unlike real people, these would do what he told them to.
L
I COULD SEE Diomedes waiting for me in the temple portico; the high square forehead he had inherited from Chrysippus was unmistakable. I quickened my steps, afraid that despite my warning he might lose his nerve and flee. Lysa had the backbone in that family.
`I found somebody!' he assured me eagerly. As if that settled everything.
`Good news, Diomedes. Let's do it properly though…'Before I let him take me in to see the priest, I kept him back and made him face the questioning he had so far escaped. `I'll hear what this fellow has to say, but first I would like you to tell me in your own words what you did the morning your father died.'
Diomedes pulled up. `I came here. I was here all morning. The priest will tell you so.' Oh, he probably would too.
`Good,' I replied gently. `And what happened either side of your religious experience?'
Nobody had rehearsed him for this. Still, he made a go of it: `I came straight here from my mother's house. Afterwards, I went straight home.'
`So you were not only here all morning – you actually stayed at the temple all day?'
`Yes,' he retorted defiantly.
